


Little Things

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Domestic Fluff, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Flowers, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Language, M/M, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: In the first few months of knowing the Witcher, he experienced first-hand how shut-off Geralt could be with the world around him and those within it.At some point, and he can’t pinpoint where, that shroud started to slip away. He saw how much Geralt could, and does, actually care. It’s as fierce as the way he fights.They spend a great deal of time watching each other; when they finally fell into a bed together, they spent most of their nights learning what the other liked, mapping the plains of skin and muscle underneath the other.But it’s the other things, the little things, that Jaskier thinks about the most.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 104
Kudos: 909
Collections: Best Geralt





	Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Title: Geralt works out what his Love Language is.

He hears what people say about them. He knows what they must think. How in the names of all of the gods do they even work as a pair? They’re as different as day and night. And maybe at one point in his life, Jaskier would have agreed with them. In the first few months of knowing the Witcher, he experienced first-hand how shut-off Geralt could be with the world around him and those within it.

At some point, and he can’t pinpoint where, that shroud started to slip away. He saw how much Geralt could, and does, actually care. It’s as fierce as the way he fights.

They spend a great deal of time watching each other; when they finally fell into a bed together, they spent most of their nights learning what the other liked, mapping the plains of skin and muscle underneath the other.

But it’s the other things, the little things, that Jaskier thinks about the most.

* * *

Their journey to Kaer Morhen is going well. They’re making good time. Winter nips at their heels, and with no whispers from the south about Nilfgaardian movements, Jaskier can tell how anxious the Witcher must be about returning to a safe, neutral ground. Kaer Morhen, for all that he’s heard about it, will see them weather whatever casts itself over the Continent. For a time, anyway. Until they figure out what it is they need to do with their latest edition to their group.

“Jaskier!” Ciri’s voice carries through the air. Quick footsteps snapping twigs tell her where she is. She jogs back towards camp, breaking through the shrubs surrounding their camp. “Look what I found!”

The bard looks up, fingers stilling over lute strings. Their camp is nestled in a thick forest. The canopy overhead had given them enough shelter from the rain a few hours ago. Since it cleared, Geralt has been tending to a small fire and a cast-iron pot hoisted above it.

Ciri drops to the ground beside him, brushing a stray strand of golden hair out of her face. Bundled in a gloved hand are some flowers. Jaskier blinks. He recognises them. An approaching winter has caused the world around them to lose its colour. Everything he’s seen has been turned grey. Even the grass in the meadows is starting to wilt and wither away. But the flowers in Ciri’s hands, winter pansies, are so bright: purple, lilac, yellow. The inside of the petals are stained black, as if an inkwell as splattered.

Ciri watches him with a broad smile blushing her cheeks. “You told me that they were your favourite.” 

“You were only a few summers old then,” Jaskier marvels quietly, tracing the rim of a petal with his finger. “How do you possibly remember that?”

“Because you visited the gardens every year when you came to visit,” she explains. “And you always asked the groundskeeper when these would blossom best.”

A lump tries to lodge in his throat. The girl is just so _good_. Something that he hasn’t seen in the world in a long time; at least, not tarnished. He knows what she’s been through. Or he has an inkling at the very least. He hears here some nights, crying into her pillow, or crawling into bed with them, shaking and trembling that something or someone might carry her away. 

And yet, she remembers things like _what flowers are his favourite_. Jaskier swallows.

He isn’t going to cry.

He’s not going to cry in the middle of gods know where.

“Thank you, my darling,” he smiles, pressing a light kiss to the centre of her forehead. Ciri’s nose wrinkles. It always does whenever he kisses her. She tries to wriggle out of his hugs and pulls her hand away when he tries to hold it. It’s something she’s done since she was a child. Even all of these years later, his heart tightens when he sees a flash of that young girl in front of him, brief and fleeting like an afterimage.

“You’re welcome,” she smiles, standing up and wandering over to the fire to warm her hands. Jaskier’s eyes follow her until he spots Geralt sitting silently at the other side of the campfire, staring straight back at him with his head cocked slightly to the side. When their eyes meet, Geralt hums, and goes back to tending their dinner.

* * *

She needs to know how to fight. That’s one of the many, many, _many_ reasons they’re going to Kaer Morhen in the first place. Who better to teach her these things than the wolf pack in the mountains?

They’re still half a day’s ride away from the keep, but the sun doesn’t stay perched in the sky long enough for them to make any great ground anymore. There’s a village that sits at the foot of the mountain; one that sees them sheltered for the night. Villagers here are just slimmer clones of Geralt, if Jaskier is being perfectly honest. None of them talk, moving around each other uttering noises instead of words. He doesn’t think they’ve actually made eye contact with him in the time since they got here.

While they still have a few hours left of sunlight, Geralt and Ciri use the livery’s yard as a makeshift training arena. In one of the last villages they walked through, Ciri was given new clothes and a wooden sword. She’s faring better with breeches, being able to walk and run without tripping on the edge of a dress. And the clothes they found her in weren’t going to keep her warm as soon as the winds turned cold.

As for the sword, she had been eyeing the two sheathed to Geralt’s back. And Geralt _certainly_ wasn’t going to let her practise with an actual blade.

So that’s why he’s perched on the back step of the tavern, watching them do drills in the middle of a livery yard. He wraps his arms around himself. Despite the fur-line jacket around him, wind still nips at his skin. But he can’t bring himself to stand up and go inside.

Geralt keeps looking over to him. Probably wondering why the bard is outside watching them. Jaskier offers him a small smile whenever their eyes meet.

With learning how to fight, she’s learning that she’s going to get hit. He’s always known her to be her grandmother’s kin – a cub, yes, but a cub that will grow into a fierce lioness like the last queen of Cintra. During their drills, she’ll fall. She trips over her own feet, or her balance isn’t quite right. Sometimes, when she’s sparing some simple moves with Geralt, he’ll catch her legs and trip her.

With every thud, every plume of dust that billows up into the air, Jaskier sits up that bit straighter. She gets back up again. She always does: with a fierce frown etched into her face, sword raised high, trying to get back at the Witcher for _not being fair_.

The light is starting to fade when she gets knocked down again. Pushing herself off of the ground, she brushes her hair out of her face. No matter how many times she ties it up, it always ends up flying out of its tie and distracting her.

She pushes the hair away with a sharp huff – one that even Jaskier can hear a couple of feet away, with a breeze whistling through the yard.

Jaskier laughs, waving the girl over. “Come here,” he says lightly, “let’s sort this out.”

Ciri sits herself on the step below him, holding her head high and straight. “Could you braid it?” she asks. “It just keeps getting in my face.”

Jaskier cards his fingers through her hair, pulling it all back over her shoulders. He hums. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll just shave it all off.”

At that, she lets out a sound he can really only describe as a squawk. She spins around, staring up at him with wide eyes. “ _What?_ ”

“He’s joking, Ciri,” Geralt says softly, bringing the girl’s wooden sword over to her. Geralt’s eyes flicker to him, an eyebrow beginning to arch. _You are, aren’t you?_

Jaskier laughs. “Of course I am,” he tells the both of them, nodding at Ciri to turn back around. “I’ll have you looking even more beautiful in no time at all.” Geralt steps away, fetching the girl’s coat from where she threw it once their drills started to warm her blood. Now that they’re done for the day, chill will set in. Geralt dusts the jacket off, laying it over her shoulders. Ciri smiles up at him.

It doesn’t take him long to weave her hair into a braid. Shorter, softer hairs still fray her hairline, but a bit of wax will keep them at bay. For now, though, the braid will do. “Not the neatest, but I’ll do it again for you in the morning before we head off.” Jaskier glances over to Geralt. “When will we be leaving?”

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “If we leave at first light, we’ll be at the keep by midday.” He looks down at Ciri. “How does that sound?” Because of course Jaskier will be awake at that point. The Witcher he shares a bed with will make sure of it, even if it means dragging him out of it by his ankles. It’s Ciri who favours her sleep. But the girl nods firmly. They’re all keen to get to the keep – for the safety and security of having high, well-protected walls around them, but also for curiosity’s sake. No one outside of the guild has seen what Kaer Morhen even looks like from the outside, let alone the keep’s halls.

Ciri gets up first, tugging her coat tighter around herself. Jaskier follows. He doesn’t miss the way the joints in his knees and hips _crack_ at the movement, or how his muscles just protest it, but he blames it on the cold.

Even with the fading light, he spots a smudge of dirt on the arch of the Witcher’s cheekbone. Reaching up, Jaskier dusts it away with his thumb. “I doubt there would be any use calling for a bath now, would there?”

Geralt hums. He leans into the touch. “Kaer Morhen was built on hot springs. The baths there are like pools, big enough for a lot of people.” Something flashes in the Witcher’s eyes. “We could take one together if you like.”

Heat flashes over Jaskier’s cheeks as a slow smile curls along his lip. “I’ll hold you to that.” He tilts his head up, catching Geralt’s lips in his own.

Ciri’s face scrunches up. “Gross.”

* * *

Kaer Morhen is both everything he expected it to be, and nothing like it at all.

True to his word, one of the first places Jaskier finds himself being brought to is the baths. They’re below the keep itself, and with every step he takes, following Geralt down spiral staircases, he can feel the air getting warmer and more humid.

When he finally sees the springs, he almost cries. Days-worth of dust and dirt and cold that’s buried in his very bones seem worth it, finally. The speed in which clothes are gotten out of and thrown on to a nearby bench should alarm him. But he’s gathered an armful of glass vials, with oils and soaps and lotions with dried flowers and herbs through them, and he _will_ have the best bath he’s probably ever had in his life.

The instant that hot water kisses his skin, a shiver runs straight up his spine. Geralt wades into the deeper end of the spring, ducking his head under for a moment. It takes Jaskier a moment to plan out the bath – rock formations from the mountain leave little ledges around the rim, almost like benches. Some parts of the bath are deeper than the others. Jaskier sits on a ledge with his vials within arm’s reach. Once settled, Geralt wades back over to him, taking a seat just below him. Geralt leans back, pressing against Jaskier’s chest and settling with a soft sigh. Without thinking, the bard’s hands go to Geralt’s shoulders.

This isn’t a new or an odd thing. He washed the Witcher when he still insisted on keeping his veil of _not caring about anything or anyone_ up. He washed the Witcher when that veil slipped away.

Gathering some oil in his palms, he sets them on Geralt’s shoulder. A silence falls over them; one that doesn’t need to be filled. Geralt’s eyes slip shut as fingers work away every string of tension in his muscles. Jaskier is just content to have his Witcher as pliant as he is underneath his hands.

Some part of him wants people to see this. He wants people to see the man they all fear so much, being soft clay underneath Jaskier’s ministrations. But then, the hackles rise at the thought of other eyes seeing this – something that is for them and them alone. He’d happily gouge out the eyes of anyone who would impose on this.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but the water doesn’t cool at all. Whatever water that sloshes out of the bath, or escapes outside into the cold, it’s replaced by the mountain. The hot spring smells faintly of sulphur, but it’s not unpleasant. Candles burning around the bathhouse mask most of the smell with dusk rose and something else he can’t quite put his finger on.

The comforting smell of chamomile lilts over the air as he works more oil into Geralt’s back and his chest. After a stretch of silence, Jaskier speaks. “Are you asleep?” he tilts his head. He can’t see the Witcher’s eyes, but he imagines that they’re closed.

A hum rumbles through Geralt. _Sort of_.

Jaskier stretches back for a different vial of oil; one that Geralt likes, but never actually admits it. It’s for his hair, keeping the already bright strands even brighter. He tries not to move too much. Geralt is reclining against him. And although the water laps gently at them, he doesn’t want it to bother the snoozing wolf too much.

When Geralt speaks again, his voice is quiet. “Why do you do this?”

A soft frown creases Jaskier’s forehead. “Because I want to,” Jaskier replies. He says it as though it were the simplest thing in the world. And to a point, he guesses that it is. He likes looking after Geralt – because gods know that Geralt certainly doesn’t look after himself. Although he doesn’t love Geralt coming back from a hunt bruised or cut or caked in mud or grime, he likes making sure that his Witcher is clean and safe and loved.

Geralt hums, mulling the response over in his head.

* * *

Eskel and Lambert take turns tutoring Ciri. Jaskier watches from the forge as the three of them dance in the main practise arena. Although it’s one of the warmer days, the winds are still unforgiving. The lit forge behind him keeps his back warm at the very least; and with one of Geralt’s cloaks around him, Jaskier isn’t too keen on moving from his post.

Ciri listens to the other two Witchers intently – even when they argue among themselves about how best to pirouette with a broadsword. Jaskier can see the faintest of smiles ghosting her lips when a brotherly argument goes a bit too far and both Witchers start squaring up to each other.

Before the first fist can swing, a sharp whinny sounds from the main gate. Jaskier’s ears twitch. He can tell who it is without even looking.

He woke up this morning to an empty bed. It’s not uncommon. Geralt is sometimes so restless that he can’t stay in one place for too long – in a warm bed with a warm body beside him included. But he never ventures far.

Jaskier stretched out his hand this morning and frowned when he felt cold sheets. The tell-tale scent of the Witcher was already starting to thin from his pillow.

Neither Eskel nor Lambert knew where he had gone. And Vesemir just offered a shrugged shoulder. “His horse is gone so he probably went out on a trail,” the elder Witcher grunted, going back to his sword and whetstone.

Geralt rides Roach over to the stables, hopping down and patting her neck. He says something to her, too quiet for Jaskier to hear. He’s quick to slip her saddle and bridle off and get her settled in her stall.

Ciri pays him no mind, using the opportunity of Eskel and Lambert arguing among themselves to practise her stances with her sword. Jaskier tugs his cloak tighter around himself, staving off a stray breeze. When Geralt wanders over, Jaskier sees that one of his hands is behind his back.

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “Where have you been?” he asks, shuffling over a bit so Geralt can take a seat next to him.

He doesn’t. Instead, Geralt looks down at his boots for a second. Wordlessly, he stretches out his hand.

Gathered in his fist, Jaskier blinks at the sight of flowers. Bright coloured flowers gathered in a piece of cloth. They look so small and dainty in comparison to Geralt’s hand. He recognises them instantly. Winter pansies; ones in a rich shade of royal purple, bright yellow, and one that is as white as snow.

Jaskier sits forward, mouth slightly agape. “I didn’t know that they grew this high up,” Jaskier says.

Geralt swallows. “They don’t.”

At that, Jaskier frowns. The trails around the mountain are bare, but he saw some flora growing on the roadside on their hike up. None of it looked as bright as what Geralt has grasped in his hands.

In fact, the last time he saw flowers blooming that bright was at the foot of the mountain.

No.

_No._

**_No, he didn’t—_ **

“Did you...” Jaskier’s eyes flick between Geralt’s face and his hand. “Did you walk back down to the village, just to get flowers?”

Geralt presses his lips into a thin line. He nods.

“For me?”

Another nod.

Jaskier can feel his brain starting to shut down. “The village is half a day’s walk away,” he breathes.

“It didn’t take that long. I took Roach,” Geralt shrugs a shoulder.

“You took-” A laugh wrangles its way out of his throat. It’s ridiculous. It’s _lovely_ and _sweet_ and _kind_ , but it’s ridiculous. He reaches out for the flowers. The cloth is mostly wrapped around their stems. The cut is clean enough that, if he put them into a vase of water, they’ll keep for a couple of days. It’ll be a splash of colour to a colourless winter. They have a faint perfume to them, but nothing too overpowering.

Jaskier pats the space next to him. “Come here, you oaf.”

Geralt wordlessly falls to Jaskier’s side. When he sits, the sides of their thighs press and warmth blooms through their skin. Jaskier lightly ghosts his finger over the flowers’ petals, marvelling at how bright and healthy they are despite winter rolling in. He nudges Geralt’s shoulder with his. “Why did you walk all the way back down the mountain to get me flowers?” he asks with a slight lilt to his voice.

He knows the answer. Well, he thinks he does. He just wants to hear Geralt say it.

The Witcher’s expression is utterly unreadable. He stares off in to some corner of the forge, his jaw working. “Because I wanted to,” he offers after a time.

The smile that spreads across Jaskier’s face couldn’t be gotten rid of even if he tried. He leans against Geralt’s side, pressing a kiss to the arch of his cheekbone. “They’re gorgeous. Thank you, love.”

Even though he knows he’ll blame it on the cold, Jaskier swears that he can see colour wash over Geralt’s cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (general nonsense) | agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> Why winter pansies for Jaskier's favourite flower? idk my aunt used to babysit me when my parents were working and she had a lot of them growing in her garden, and they looked neat. I wouldn't be as transparent to give him buttercups lmao
> 
> There will probably be a part II to this. Keep an eye out x
> 
> Kudos & Comments greatly appreciated!
> 
> Stay Safe. Stay At Home.


End file.
